


Intervention II

by littlemiss_m



Series: Intervention [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Eating Disorders, Friendship, Gen, Prompto Argentum Needs a Hug, by more or less forcing him to eat, gladio tries to help prompto, he's almost too tough in this but prompto's in a really bad shape, so gladio worries for him a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 19:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16102676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemiss_m/pseuds/littlemiss_m
Summary: Gladio, Prompto, and half a carton of eggs.





	Intervention II

**Author's Note:**

> This was not supposed to be a series yet here we are, again :D I'd recommend reading the first piece if you haven't done that already, but it's not crucial. There will be two more fics in this series but I don't know when I'll get around to writing and posting them.
> 
> Please read the tags; do not read if the fic sounds too upsetting to you. To everyone else, please enjoy <3

Gladio's at the Citadel training grounds when he gets the message, though he doesn't notice it till a bit later, when he's done with his circuits and stumbles to the benches for a towel and a bottle of cold water. Panting for breath, he grabs the bottle, then blinks at the little white light flashing on his phone's upper right corner. It's from Noctis, he soon finds out, sweaty fingers slipping on the slick screen guard, but it's the contents that have him holding onto what little air he has left in his lungs.

**Noctis [9:17 a.m.]:** so looks like proms skipping school  
**Noctis [9:18 a.m.]:** hes not answering any of my texts and also both the teachers so far looked confused when he didnt answer the roll call so im guessing he didnt call in sick either  
**Noctis [9:25 a.m.]:** could u check up on him? please?

Gladio lets the air out slowly, then drags in another breath. It's been less than a week since they decided enough was enough and arranged the little intervention for Prompto, and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been expecting _some_ sort of a kick-back, but it doesn't make the whole thing any more palatable. Gladio's used to cleaning up messes – has been brought up and trained to do so – but with this particular one, he doesn't really know where to even begin. Or where to continue, since Ignis was the beginning; they've talked since, Ignis and Prompto, but Gladio's only been told the talks were neither good nor bad, and that's pretty much that.

It doesn't help the situation that Prompto's only barely seventeen, or that his parents are apparently nowhere to be found, because this means there's no-one else to grab him by the neck but his friends and in Gladio's opinion that _really_ isn't a good way to go about it because _this_ means putting their friendship on the line balanced by Prompto's flailing health. It doesn't matter they're the Crown and its representatives, the next generation of leaders waiting for the inevitable; they can't just force Prompto into anything, not even when doing so would be for his own best. Their best shot at getting Prompto voluntarily accepting treatment is nothing but them trying to steer and direct him towards people who can do the actual helping part, and it just isn't enough, not for things like this. Gladio knows as much, and so he despairs behind Noctis' back, shares looks with Ignis and tries to figure out a way out that won't cost them their friendship with Prompto.

* * *

When Gladio arrives at the quaint little house were Prompto lives with his missing parents, he steps out of his car just in time to see a thin figure stumble into a halt a few houses down the road, in the direction of the nearest park and its soft running paths. For a moment, it looks like Prompto's going to turn away and bolt, but eventually he gives in – and this is something Gladio can actually see, the slump of his shoulders and the angry frown on pale lips – and begins dragging his feet forward. Gladio, still leaning against his car, waits and tries to steel himself for the fight he can already see coming.

The thing, the one they all ignored for far too long in hopes that they were misreading signals and making mountains out of molehills, is that Prompto's already at the point where hospitalization is an option rather than a distant possibility, but he won't accept it, and if they force it on him, then that's one friendship ruined. Gladio's seen it happen to a handful of people, the anger and the fear, and it's clear to him that Prompto – independent, stubborn, always-fine Prompto – would never forgive them for refusing him control of his own life. They're already toeing a thin line, the same way Prompto is toeing death, and one mistake is all it would take for Prompto to decide they're the enemy.

”Funny thing, I didn't realize today was a holiday,” Gladio comments when Prompto reaches the white picket fence between the Argentum house and the next one. He leans away from the car and tucks the key into his pockets, then tilts his head towards the house when he sees Prompto's scowl deepening. ”Or did I miss a new scientific breakthrough or something? Running till you drop dead suddenly cures all illnesses? Is that what this is?”

” _Shut up,_ ” Prompto grouses, walking past him. His shoulders are tense and up to his ears once more. There's more heat in his voice than Gladio has ever witnessed before, none of the nervous tremble he's so used to. Holding back a sigh, he instead rolls his eyes at the back of Prompto's head and follows him inside the house, sticking his foot through the door before Prompto so much as gets the chance to close it on him.

For a second, Prompto looks as if he might try to resist, but he doesn't. He also doesn't speak up; he glowers at Gladio, hunched into himself like an animal of prey trying to stalk past a threat, and then, a moment later, he's stepping out of his shoes and futher into the house. Gladio, still wearing a face much braver than he feels, follows him into the living room before spotting the kitchen behind an arching doorway.

”Have you eaten yet?” he asks, doubting he'll get the answer out of Prompto. When no answer comes, he stops in the doorway and turns around, a hand cocked on one hip. ”Well? Have you?”

” _Yes_ ,” Prompto spits at him, voice little else but vitriol. Gladio cocks an eyebrow but doesn't say anything. ”I did!”

”Sure thing, Chocobutt,” he drawls, slinking futher into the kitchen. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Prompto slip into the toilet and leaves him be, instead taking a moment to inspect the contents of the kitchen. There's far too little food hidden in the cupboards, a sign of not only Prompto's eating disorder but also the absence of any other inhabitants, but Gladio does find half a carton of eggs in the fridge. When he sees they're still good, he nods and grabs the packade.

”How d'you want your eggs?” he asks when Prompto finally exits the bathroom, ignoring the red of his eyes. Prompto stills.

”What?” he croaks, brow furrowing together. ”I told you I already ate!”

”Uh-huh, and I'm the president of Accordo,” Gladio says, rolling his eyes. ”How do you want them? Boiled, baked, fried? I'm no Iggy but I can cook eggs pretty damn fine, even if I say so myself.”

The sound that Prompto makes is nothing but the air exiting his lungs in one, desperately dumbfounded huff. ”I don't want any!” he cries, voice rising in pitch until it's shrill and rings throughout the living area, but Gladio doesn't budge. Isn't willing to budge, not when this is all the resistance Prompto shows him.

”I'm going to cook up some eggs,” he says, staring Prompto down, hard and un-flinching, ”and you're going to eat them. How – do – you – want – your – eggs?”

Gladio is met with silence and for a moment, he thinks he's gone too far after all, that he's moved too fast, too quick, too far, enroaching on a territory Prompto isn't yet ready to face. But then Prompto begins to deflate like a leaky balloon, slumping into himself until his arms are flush against his chest, as if he could disappear via the simple act of curling into a ball – but then again, small as he is, him simply fading away is not an impossibility.

”I said I don't want to,” Prompto tries once, but he's already given up and they both know it. Gladio hears it in the whisper-thin voice, sees it in the down-turned face and the way Prompto continues to hug himself, shaking and on the brink of crying, and so he doesn't say anything, simply waits. Eventually, Prompto sighs and mumbles out his answer, a quiet ”hard-boiled” and nothing more.

”Sure thing, Chocobutt,” Gladio agrees easily, already twisting back into the kitchen. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Prompto twitch towards the staircase leading upstairs.

”I'm just gonna – I'm all nasty from running,” the blond murmurs. With the fight gone out of him, he's quiet and shy, unwilling to look Gladio in the eye, and the sight brings an uncomfortable tenseness to Gladio's chest.

”Don't lock the door,” Gladio says, suddenly hating himself and the world and even Prompto. ”I'm gonna come knocking in fifteen if you're not back by then, and if the door's locked, I'll come through either way.”

It's not a threat he wants to make – as he speaks, a heavy weight settles at the bottom of his stomach, guilt and inadequacy mingling together – but one look at Prompto's gaunt, bloodless face is enough to tell him it's necessary. He seems seconds away from passing out and apparently knows as much himself, quietly folding into acquiescense instead. He stumbled away without a word, Gladio listening to the light footfalls first on carpeted floors, then on the creaky stairs, until he hears the first splash of water hitting the tub somewhere above him. With a sigh, he sets on the eggs, leaving them next to the stove while he tries to find a pan.

Once Gladio has all the materials gathered and a small saucer full of water sitting on the stove, he finds himself growing antsy. There's not much for him to other than wait – for Prompto, for the water to boil – and he keeps his ears on the sounds echoing in from above while his eyes watch the pot for the first signs of the water beginning to heat up. He doesn't consider himself an anxious man but here, in this small kitchen, stuck between the stove and a friend hell-bent on killing himself, there's nothing else for him to feel but the bubbles of nerves in his chest, like the pockets of air moving past the eggs as the water boils and boils and boils–

–the timer goes off and Gladio closes his eyes, allows himself a moment of nothingness before switching off the ear-grating ringing and picking up the pan. Up above, Prompto's still in the shower, and though Gladio's heart feels like it's about to burst out of his ribcage, he leaves him be. The fifteen minutes aren't up, not quite, and so he pours out the hot water and replaces it with a dose of ice-cold tap water, then repeats the process twice more. The shower shuts off and Gladio breathes out a sigh of relief.

He doesn't know what the fuck he's doing.

He doesn't know what the fuck he's going and it's easier to just dry off the eggs, one and two and three and four, a shamefully meager meal but one that would never have been eaten without his interference, and so Gladio tells himself he's on the right track. He finds a shaker of salt and sits himself at the table, pausing to wipe the dust from from the seat of his chair, and waits. Though he's out of the shower, Prompto still takes his time, and Gladio spends said time staring at the small bowl of eggs boiled to perfection, resigns himself for waiting.

When he hears Prompto's footsteps reach the bottom of the staircase, Gladio grabs one of the eggs and begins cracking the shell open. He tries to appear nonchalant and casual, wants to lull Prompto into a sense of security, but as the shuffling of cautious feet pauses in the doorway, he knows he's failed all the same. When he looks up from the egg in his hands, he sees Prompto staring at him, eyes wide and lips wobbly, hair still damp from his shower.

”Oh, Prom,” he sighs, setting the egg down and scooting the chair back a fraction. ”Come here, buddy.”

Prompto crumbles down as he moves around the table, almost flying into Gladio's open and awaiting arms. The quivering mess on his lap takes almost no space on his lap at all, feels far smaller and lighter than it should, and for some reason, this is the knife that stabs right through Gladio's heart. Prompto's so, so close to breaking down completely and Gladio can barely hold him in fear of accidentally bruising the unpadded bones under paper-thin skin. The sobs shaking their way through Prompto's body are enough to bring tears to the corners of Gladio's eyes, enough to cause his throat to constrict around nothing, and still he doesn't know what to do. Holding onto Prompto seems like the only thing he's capable of but it's not enough, it won't do anything past a momentary comfort, and Gladio feels more useless than he's ever felt before.

What could he say? He's not Ignis, he doesn't know what's going on in Prompto's head. All the classes he's taken over the years on mental health and eating disorders are worthless to him now that he's finally facing such a situation in real life, in a person more dear to him than the fellow Crownsguards he'll one day come to command, and he doesn't know what to do beyond combing his hand through Prompto's damp hair while the other continues cry, cry, cry. His training is suddenly reduced to a list of platitudes that are too – clumsy, meaningless, too impersonal to be spoken around Prompto. _It's okay_ , he wants to say, despairs to placate the hot tears rolling into the crook of his neck; _it's okay, we'll get through this, you've got help_ – but there's no _point_ in those words, because Prompto isn't okay and there is no ”we” and Prompto won't take the help offered to him.

Blinking back tears of his own, Gladio presses his chin down against the fluff atop Prompto's head and finds himself facing the bowl where three eggs wait pitifully. The fourth with the cracked shell is where he placed it a moment earlier, on the table between him and the bowl, and all of sudden his stomach curls into itself in dread and doubt and then a disbelief he has to force as his mind tells him this is just a ploy on Prompto's part, a way to get out of eating – which it could be, which Prompto is probably hoping if not actively planning for, and Gladio's mouth runs dry within seconds. He doesn't want to believe it when Prompto still hasn't quieted down but it's all he can think of, that and how easily Prompto gave in earlier, and so suspicion bleeds into his thoughts no matter how hard he fights it.

Prompto continues to cry, only pausing to choke in a breath. Gladio squeezes his eyes shut and holds onto his friend just that much tighter. ” _Please_ , Prom, let us help you,” he pleads, then corrects, ”let us get you help,” because their help alone will never be enough. Prompto sobs, laughs until he's crying harden than before, fingers still holding onto the front of Gladio's shirt.

Gladio wishes he knew what to say, what to do. He doesn't, so he holds on.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! <3 My tumblr is @missymoth if anyone wants to come say hi :)


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